


Lucky Wilson

by aPaperCupCut



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Agender Character, Also guest starring wigfrid. For a single scene, Angst?, Crack, Crangst!, Death, Gen, I am so sorry, Mentions of Underage Sex, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, The underage sex does not actually happen. Just mentioned in a simile, Vague torture, Violence, What Have I Done, What did I do?, Wolf wilson, Wx78 is not a good person, a bit OOC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9656423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: This seems a bit far fetched.Maxwell got bored, got bored again, forgot about it, and Wilson has a bad day. Or, well, a bad week. Month. Or whatever.





	1. Wilson has a bad day

**Author's Note:**

> i got tired of people talking about their rps and not posting them. The people who did post them are fricking awesome, but i kind of wanted to write my own thing for it. so heres hound-ish wilson for your enjoyment.

His teeth ached.

 

He did not like this.

 

No, not one bit.

 

It wasn't right.

 

It didn't even make sense.

 

No, he wasn't going to look into the pond, not going to glance at his reflection.

 

It was terrifying enough just seeing his hands, just seeing his feet, just seeing his godsforsaken _tail._

 

But no. He wasn't going to entertain this line of thought any longer - he wasn't going to drive his mind to hysteria when he needed to _focus._

 

So he did not reach up to feel his teeth, did not swipe at his dry lips with a too long, too soft tongue.

 

Nevermind that.

 

He forcefully focused on the task at hand.

 

He was gathering berries. A normal pastime, nothing unusual there.

 

He kept his ears and eyes open, however - nothing was going to surprise him, nothing!

 

Of course, nothing did.

 

He finished picking the little sour fruits, untouched but bothered anyway.

 

Camp was a short distance away.

 

Easy.

 

Not really, why was he fooling himself?

 

He'd been kidnapped! He'd nearly starved!

 

He'd been stuck in this hell for _weeks!_

 

Weeks that he could've spent working! Weeks he could have spent changing the world!

 

He dropped to the floor heavily, ignoring the sinking sun.

 

He'd light the fire in a second - he just needed a moment.

 

He'd gotten greedy, gotten his ass handed to him, and was now suffering the consequences.

 

But that man had promised! What kind of gentleman went back on his word?

 

No doubt about it, he may have been arrogant, but he'd been tricked as well!

 

And now - now, his body was - was - was doing _something weird!_

 

And he didn't know what to do!

 

His hands - they weren't even hands! They were science forbidden paws!

 

And - and his _feet!_ How was he even _walking?_

 

And he has a _tail._ A _tail!_

 

This was not normal!

 

And his teeth and eyes seemed to be going the same way - his teeth fucking _hurt._

 

And his eyes.

 

Well, right now was a good example of why his were all _wrong._

 

Oh. Wait.

 

He shot to his feet, darting to set the fire.

 

Caught up in his own thoughts, he hadn't noticed the sun disappearing behind the horizon, the shadows creeping in like an adventurous cat coming home.

 

The fireflies had saved him, but with the slightest movement they were gone.

 

The fire roared, bursting upward, surprising him so much he fell back onto his backside.

 

Yikes! His tail!

 

He jumped up again, this time in pain, and tried to soothe his poor tail, rubbing out the kinks slowly.

 

He relaxed.

 

The fire was warm, he wasn't thinking about how he'd gotten here, his fur was soft to the touch, and he was -

 

He stopped.

 

He. Was. PURRING.

 

That was. That was not normal.

 

_This was not NORMAL!_

 

Why did he keep doing this?

 

He wrapped his arms around his middle, trying to ignore the prick of his nails, tried to ignore the rising hackles along his back.

 

This was not normal!

 

* * *

 

Now Wilson was gathering his supplies.

 

Everything was….

 

It was fine.

 

He'd died, a few days ago.

 

Everything was just. Just fine.

 

Wilson was moving camp. Because Winter was coming, and he wanted to find somewhere a little more sheltered.

 

He'd died. But it wasn't….

 

It wasn't the first time.

 

Wilson had no doubt now.

 

He'd been here much longer than a few weeks.

 

Perhaps that was the reason -

 

No. He wasn't thinking about that. He was thinking about his new camp.

 

It was going to be in a little alcove that he'd scouted out just before dieing, a sweet thing inset into an enormous tree trunk.

 

He'd already set up food bins and drying racks, and was moving the last few items over.

 

Halfway to his new den, however, something pricked his ears.

 

Hackles rising, he twisted his head toward the sound.

 

It was….

 

Of course. Just, just fine.

 

He could handle this.

 

No biggie.

 

He quickly hid the supplies under a nearby bush, straightening and glancing around.

 

They were close, but if he played this right he could make it out unscathed.

 

He shot off.

 

* * *

 

Wilson's chest struggled, his effort only barely suppressing the sound.

 

He was hidden up in a large tree.

 

The needles jabbed the underside of his arms, his hair catching uncomfortably.

 

They were right below him.

 

They were unusually concentrated at the base of the tree, but he knew it wasn't because of him. Well, he hoped it wasn't.

 

A varg was accompanying them, was encouraging them.

 

Just great. Wonderful.

 

He sweated, focusing on _not_ sniffling.

 

He stayed still.

 

How long was this going to take?

 

It felt like it'd been hours, and he could practically _feel_ the sun setting.

 

But they. Just. Wouldn't. Leave.

 

So here he was, waiting and waiting and waiting and -

 

The tree shook, then tilted.

 

Excited barks from down below, and Wilson couldn't resist.

 

He looked down.

 

The varg was looking right up at him, its face twisted in a haunting grin.

 

The hounds that jumped around it yipped, louder, upon seeing him.

 

They continued pounding against the tree, pushing it over inch by inch.

 

He was done for.

 

Wilson Percival Higgsbury, age 32, gentleman and scientist, was going to die.

 

Nevermind his suspicions. Nevermind that.

 

He was going to be torn to pieces, eaten and forgotten.

 

He would not stand for that.

 

So with a wild yell, Wilson Percival Higgsbury jumped down from his branch, landing on top of one of the snarling hounds.

 

It squealed, and the others froze for a precious second.

 

Wilson did not take that moment for granted.

 

He moved, shoving the animals away from him, running, no, _galloping_ away as fast as he could.

 

The trees were a blur, his breath quick and hot in his throat.

 

Behind him, his pursuers had recovered.

 

With yowls and yips, they chased him.

 

Who was he kidding? There was no possible way for him to outrun such creatures!

 

He dove headfirst into a nearby bush, hoping against hope that he hadn't been spotted, that he'd been quick enough.

 

He could hear them scrambling around, only several feet away from him.

 

He held his rasping breath.

 

They shuffled about, the varg growing ever more annoyed.

 

It kept yipping and growling at the hounds, even occasionally whining. The hounds seemed just as distressed; Wilson could hear them thumping down, belly up.

 

When they finally gave up, Wilson was dry from the run, sweat making his fur stiff and uncomfortable.

 

He crept out of his hiding spot.

 

The sun was setting, golden light stark against the approaching darkness.

 

He was alone.

 

Night was dry, slightly warm.

 

Too warm.

 

His fur was almost suffocating, and Wilson tried not to pant.

 

Humans don't pant when they are hot. They sweat.

 

Which was what he was doing. Sweating.

 

He tugged his legs as close to his chest as possible, wrapping his arms around in a familiar gesture.

 

He did not rock his body.

 

Normal people did not rock, nor did they pant like dogs.

 

Far away, the sound of howls and barks filled the night air.

 

They were too distant to alarm him.

 

He lit the fire, but once that was done....

 

He was alone.

 

His shoulders shook.

 

He - he wasn't human anymore, was he?

 

His eyes were white - just white.

 

Humans had pupils.

 

He didn't.

 

What was happening to him?

 

Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on his arms, almost painfully.

 

Wilson had a theory. It wasn't pleasant, and if it was correct….

 

This would be irreversible.

 

It would get worse, like a degenerative disease.

 

He wouldn't be able walk. He wouldn't be able to speak.

 

But that was only if his theory was true.

 

Maybe dieing…. _infected_ him with something.

 

Maybe each time he died it got worse.

 

After dieing from that lightning strike, he'd awoken upon that platform….

 

And his ears had tripled in size, and his elbows were stiff - not quite locked, but close.

 

So….

 

Each time he died, it got worse.

 

And as surviving here was practically impossible, Wilson was….

 

Well. He wouldn't be able to go home.

 

He would probably turn into some kind of _monster_ ….

 

He shuffled closer to the fire, seeking a comfort that was useless.

 

He was alone in this.

 

Completely. And utterly. Alone.

 

He was alone!

 

He laughed, spontaneously, slightly hysterical.

 

But even that was difficult- his tongue, long and thick, clogged his throat, and the laugh ended in a choke.

 

He coughed, raggedly, fighting back tears.

 

He was done for, wasn't he?

 

This was it.

 

He wouldn't physically die - not by bees, not by giants, not by hounds or vargs, hells, not even by Maxwell's boredom.

 

Because, even if those threats were to slay him, he would probably be dead already.

 

_If not in body, then in mind._

 

This whole struggle was pointless, wasn't it?

 

Wilson Percival Higgsbury would rot, his brilliant intelligence replaced by some base bestial instinct.

 

Hah! He'd be walking around on all fours, eating his food raw!

 

He chuckled, the sound wet and slapping, his tongue scraped by harsh canines.

 

Then Wilson cried.

 

Not for long, and not too loudly, but he still sobbed - messily, with snot running down his face, with body lurching in barely restrained moans.

 

It was good for him, in the long run.

  
Facing the pit and opening his eyes to his future was, indeed, the only thing he could've done.


	2. They're just animals, right Wilson? Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah... I was gonna have this with the next chap but meh. It felt kinda weird to smush the two together.

He awoke slowly, fitfully.

 

Black fur, whining - a slobbery tongue, urging him back to sleep again.

 

Wilson snuggled closer into the warm body, dully noting the squirming forms piled on all sides of him.

 

Wait.

 

Why was he warm? Hadn't it been close to Winter? And when was the last time he'd even touched another breathing, hot blooded body?

 

His eyebrows furrowed.

 

A dread was poisoning whatever calm contentment he'd had, was slithering up his throat.

 

Wilson did not want to open his eyes.

 

Instead, he frantically threw his mind to last night - what happened last night?

 

He remembered….

 

A soft, solid disk, held aloft in the clear sky.

 

A full moon.

 

_The Full Moon._

 

Before all…. _this_ …. had changed him, the Full Moon had been a time of anxiety. With strange mushroom trees and Glommer and the general feeling of _Wrongness_ , Wilson had mostly stuck to his camp during the event.

 

But there was something else, wasn't there?

 

There were the Werepigs.

 

Had something similar happened to him.

 

Had he just….

 

Well, he _had_ just died a few hours beforehand, and had been feeling…. _tingly_ all that evening.

 

So, he changed into some nightmare beast. Not that big of a change from his current situation.

 

Not a big deal.

 

Nope. It wasn't.

 

It was. Perfectly. Ok.

 

He was fine.

 

But where was he now?

 

He was tense, drawn tight, growing tighter and tighter with each passing moment.

 

A tongue. Licked his ear.

 

He relaxed.

 

_WAIT._

 

He froze, and his eyes burst open.

 

All around him.

 

Were hounds.

 

They were sleeping.

 

On him.

 

He inhaled. He exhaled.

 

Wilson could not, _not,_ let them _know._

 

A massive rumble shut that thought down fairly quickly.

 

Wilson was laying on a varg.

 

He'd been sleeping, had fucking _cuddled,_  a hells damned _VARG._

 

He. Was. Done.

 

He couldn't hold it back anymore.

 

He coughed. He choked.

 

Then, his frame shook.

 

And he wilted.

 

Hounds were tossed off him with undignified yips, some just sleepily shifting closer to his heaving body.

 

He wheezed, he moaned, he curled and uncurled, his hands went up in his hair, touched his ears and shuddered away, went to his face, scratched his cheeks.

 

The varg mumbled behind him.

 

_Stop it! You need to GET AWAY!_

 

_Are you even listening? ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?_

 

He couldn't stop - he couldn't stop!

 

A whine, but it was far away, it was above miles of ocean water, underneath miles of sand.

 

As his body continued to rock haphazardly and his hands flailed, a warm, heavy presence began to…. _pet_ …. his back.

 

Soft, foul smelling tongues licked his furrowed face.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to reach a pseudo-calm.

 

His gut churned, a heat he could only call _anger_ rising up his throat.

 

Wilson's head was buzzing, his eyes swollen and wet, and he couldn't think straight. A familiar, gruesome apathy fell over him like an ill fitting blanket.

 

He opened his eyes again.

 

Grinning teeth met his vision, hot breath making him flinch.

 

Wilson glanced to his right.

 

A varg - no, it was _the_ varg, the one who chased him up a tree, the only one to do so - smiled at him.

 

He scrambled back, falling back on his tail.

 

Yowtch!

 

His tail!

 

_Why did he keep doing that?_

 

Hounds clambered all around him, some attempting to climb up on him again.

 

Now that he was thinking about it, weren't these monsters a bit…. _small?_

 

Were they hound pups.

 

He looked at the varg, as if to seek confirmation.

 

It simply continued grinning.

 

So. He was trapped.

 

With a varg and a litter of hound pups.

 

Ok.

 

Any moment now, the adult hounds would come back to this cave, and -

 

Wait….

 

Hounds didn't live in caves.

 

Why was he in a _cave?_

 

He stood up on wobbly legs - it was growing increasingly difficult to walk - and attempted to shuffle towards the only light in the cavern.

 

But before he could get far, several pups knocked him over, forcing him to all fours.

 

Ok.

 

Wilson could not effectively think right now, and to be truthful, he kind of didn't want to.

 

He was just too tired for this.

 

So instead of trying again, he curled up on his side and no, he _was not petting his own tail,_ thank you very much.

 

The pups whined, but some took the opportunity to huddle close to the spot of warmth.

 

The varg, however, shooed the rest away.

 

It grasped him with enormous paws, pulling him close to its flank.

 

Wilson was not going to think about this.

 

It was just a bit - dare he say - just a _mite_ too much.

 

* * *

 

The next few days were a random jumble of fuzzy images, but Wilson had no doubt that it had been hell - for him, for the varg, and for the pups.

 

He almost never moved, too horrified, too _terrified,_  to really attempt any escape or exploration.

 

For the most part, he slept.

 

He tried to refuse eating the food the beasts offered him, but failed miserably when some was forced down his throat and he lost any will to resist.

 

Overall, he was just a miserable wretch.

 

But while Wilson may have given up on understanding anything ever again, after a time, one got _bored_ just stewing in confusion and delirium.

 

It was _boring,_ sleeping all the damn time.

 

It was _boring,_ waiting for his demise.

 

(It was _uncomfortable,_ being forced to eat that disgusting purple meat uncooked)

 

He was tired and he was bored.

 

So what if he couldn't think straight anymore?

 

So _what_ if he was covered in black fur, had ears as large as his hands, could barely walk on the dog legs he'd acquired, had a mountain of hair on his shoulders, had a _tail,_ and was always accidentally scratching his face with his fucking _paws?!_

 

So _what?_

 

This was pointless!

 

He slept all day - that didn't do anything!

 

That didn't stop this from happening!

 

Anything he did wouldn't change _anything._

 

_His body was going to get worse, whether he liked it or not._

 

Laying about would change nothing.

 

Stewing in self pity would just end in boredom and his likely demise, either at the hands of beasts with cabin fever or the returning adult hounds.

 

So. He had two choices.

 

Wilson could continue this _pathetic_ charade or he could just….

 

Deal with it.

 

Either way, he would end up more lupine than human. Either way, he would be staying with the…. _pack._

 

They were friendly enough. They fed him, kept him warm at night.

 

Wilson, when he let himself think of science, hypothesized that the varg thought he was a helpless hound pup.

 

He didn't really know why a varg was caring for a litter of hound pups, but he got the feeling it wasn't normal.

 

Well, it was the safest option, not to mention the only one. The varg never let him out of its sight, so escape was out of the question.

 

And so Wilson finally slithered out of that pit he'd already visited so many times before and found himself making an abode with a pack of beasts.

 

* * *

 

It was the first time out of the cave since the Full Moon, and Wilson was overjoyed.

 

He never thought he'd be happy about being outside, but here he was.

 

Practically jumping with joy at seeing the blue, blue sky.

 

The hound pups, who, during Wilson's captivity, had enjoyed frequent forest ventures, shot off to their own activities.

 

The varg behind him rumbled, no doubt laughing at their reactions.

 

He grunted back, but couldn't tear his eyes from his surroundings.

 

Green, green all around him.

 

The stale grey ceiling was out of his thoughts, and the science experiments in the cave quickly followed suit.

 

The sunlight fell like water, lighting up birchnut leaves like pieces of dyed glass.

 

He was in awe.

 

He approached a tree, pressing a paw to the bark.

 

Ants were squirming in and out of it, and Wilson bent closer.

 

They had two segments, with one red and the other black.

 

Only two eyes, with three legs on each side - two antennae and two sets of mandibles, and they chewed on the bark, burrowing tunnels into the tree's skin.

 

He plucked one out of its hole, bringing it close to his eyes.

 

Then, impulsively, he squished it between his fingers, rolling the resulting ooze against his skin.

 

The varg rumbled again, catching his attention.

 

Wilson returned to its side, careful to keep stooped to the ground. It disliked his bipedal nature, so he often had to walk on all fours.

 

Wilson spent the rest of the day exploring the surrounding wood, supervised by the varg.

 

He actually had time, for once, to look at the insides of a bee, and even a spider when one of the pups brought back a small one.

 

He got a closer look at the pinecones (no, they were not exactly pinecones….) and the root system of the grasses he used to depend on (and he was a little afraid of the similarities the plant had with human hair).

 

When dusk fell, however, the varg quickly led him back to the cave.

 

* * *

 

Hunting was a chore the pups did, and sometimes, when that wasn't enough, a job the varg did with extensive planning.

 

It wasn't something Wilson did.

 

All things considered, he was the baby of the group; kept under tight watch at all times, kept inside the cave unless everyone was free to watch him, and needing extra “help” eating (It wasn't help. It was torture).

 

He was taken care of like a baby, so it was no wonder they expected him to “grow up” at some point.

 

Well…. “at some point” was now.

 

Apparently.

 

He was given time to prepare, of course.

 

But even with all the time in the world, he couldn't help feeling….

 

Scared.

 

It was ridiculous. Wilson had done this before - why was he so nervous?

 

He wondered if it was because he had others to feed now - he wondered if he'd gotten too close to them.

 

Hells, at the beginning of this, just about two months ago, he'd thought of them as just beasts.

 

Well, they _were_ beasts. But they….

 

Were kind to him.

 

Of course, it wasn't an entirely _truthful_ kindness, but Wilson took what he got and was grateful nonetheless.

 

Anyway, he'd made several rudimentary spears with what he collected outside and a life amulet just in case. He tried to find a touchstone as well, but the effort proved futile.

 

It was Autumn when he was finally sent off, alone and unwatched.

 

He went east first, knowing a field of yellow grass lay that way.

 

Once there, he scanned the area, intent on his goal.

 

There.

 

A beefalo herd, small and an easy target.

 

He took a glance up, checking the sun.

 

He only had several more hours - that should be more than enough time.

 

He approached the beefalo.

 

There were four of them, each unnerved by his strange, human-but-not appearance.

 

Tensing his muscles, he hesitated - then he struck.

 

It roared, bucking quickly.

 

But he was already moving.

 

He dashed off, attempting to lead it away.

 

The others followed, but as the chase wore on they tired and fell behind.

 

He twisted around, jabbing again.

 

It reared up, bringing its horns down, hard.

 

It grazed him, but he got out of the way just in time.

 

Over and over. In and out, in and out.

 

When one spear failed, he jumped away and took out the next.

 

In and out. In and out.

 

He tired, and was roughed up badly on his legs, making his movements difficult.

 

But his patience won out in the end.

 

It shuddered, covered in lacerations in the dying evening, then toppled.

 

“Yash! Yash! Ah did it! Yash! Woohoo!”

 

He tossed his spear aside, throwing his hands up and jumping.

 

“Ahahahaha! Ah did it!”

 

Grinning from ear to ear, he reached down to grasp his spear again.

 

Panting, he loped to his kill.

 

….How was he going to move it?

 

He resisted the urge to run his paw through his hair, instead rubbing his chin.

 

What a conundrum.

 

Could he perhaps leave it here?

 

He could hide it and bring the pack to it….

 

But….

 

The sun was dim over the skyline, darkness already spreading from the east.

 

He'd just have to wait for morning.

 

Wilson's fire was a little sad, but it was the best he could put together with what he had.

 

He had fashioned his already basic spear into a pathetic ax, and collected several bundles of…. _hair_ …. to make the fire.

 

Once under the firelight, he sliced away some meat from the beefalo’s feet and face, too afraid to take from the bulk of it.

 

He tried to cook it, but -

 

“Blegh.”

 

Great. Now he had to eat it raw.

 

He blamed those beasts. They made his body adjust to it when he could've put the reaction off.

 

He had no doubt it would have happened eventually, but it sucked to experience it now.

 

Then Wilson sighed and looked down.

 

And nearly vomited up what he'd managed to choke down.

 

His legs hadn't been gored too badly, but under the firelight….

 

It looked like he was covered in some purple-black dye, thick and viscous, unpleasant to the eye and touch.

 

His blood….

 

His blood was purple.

 

His blood was black.

 

He had monster blood.

 

_Monster_ blood.

 

_When did this happen?_

 

He didn't know. He didn't _know._

 

This was because of the pack, wasn't it.

 

It was because he was living with fucking _animals,_ was fucking _acting like one._

 

He was _turning into a fucking monster._

 

Why was he staying with monsters? Why, why, why, why -

 

It just came back to the same question, didn't it.

 

(Whether he stayed with them or not, he was turning into this. They were just hastening the process)

 

Why was this happening?

 

Why did it have to be _him?_

 

Wilson - Wilson hadn't done _anything._

 

He - he'd - he'd been tricked!

 

Why was this happening to him?

 

He didn't deserve this!

 

But….

 

He’d been poking his nose into matters that he shouldn't've been long before Maxwell had contacted him.

 

He'd hurt so much, hurt so many people, hadn't he - he'd been an awful child, an awful student, had acted so _fucking_ **dignified** -

 

What was he saying before? That he _hadn't_ deserved it?

 

He’d been a snotty, arrogant bastard to everyone he had ever met, had touched things belonging only to celestial beings of truth -

 

He claimes to be a scientist, but he was nothing more than some cheap _faker_.

 

He clenched his paws over his legs, digging dirty claws into the wounds.

 

And now….

 

Now, he was blaming the only things in this godsforsaken world Maxwell ruled over that had been fucking _kind_ to him.

 

That had taken him in, had fed him, and let him feel the sunlight and touch the grass and just -

 

Nevermind their nature. Nevermind what they were doing to him. They didn't know.

 

_Forget about those memories you feel at the back of your mind. They are not yours. They would never hurt you like that._

 

They would never, _never,_ hurt him.

 

Not like he'd hurt them. Not like….

 

The only thing hurting him now was his own arrogance and his own fear.

 

* * *

 

It was….

 

A long time, since he'd been on his own.

 

….Several Winters, at least.

 

Wilson was roughened after the stay.

 

Some time ago, one of the pups had gotten sick, leading to several of their deaths.

 

The remainder of the litter wandered off on their own - which Wilson felt no small amount of relief at.

 

They'd been getting too big, too aggressive.

 

The varg had stayed with him, doting and passive.

 

It was old - had been old when it had taken him in, but had gotten too old to feed itself.

 

So Wilson hunted.

 

Not a big deal, but through revivals and through practice it had….

 

It quickened the process.

 

He couldn't walk upright with his own will anymore, and while he still had opposable thumbs, his actions were limited.

 

He took care of the varg, and he _changed,_ and time marched on.

 

He continued his trek through the snow, keeping upright by a thick stick he'd found.

 

Better to suffer an aching back and legs than to get soaked and sick.

 

The varg was dead.

 

It died in the night, likely from that infection in its gums.

 

He'd tried to clean its teeth, he really had, but it kept nipping him whenever he tried. Of course, that was back when he'd been able to.

 

He now gripped his last life amulet, and moved on.

 

_What was he doing?_

 

_Where was he going?_

 

What did it matter?

 

He might as well drop dead right now. He had no doubt that he'd be gone when he woke up.

 

He stumbled on a rock and fell.

 

The pups were gone.

 

The varg was gone.

 

His heart _ached._

 

He curled, but couldn't tuck his legs close.

 

He got up again.

 

He didn't like the cold.

 

He moved on.

 

Before long, night fell and Wilson….

 

Did not stop.

 

If the Grue got him, it wouldn't change anything.

 

He tried not to laugh when it didn't even try.

 

Instead, he kept his mouth shut (a tad bit difficult. His canines got in the way) and kept going.

 

And then….

 

There was a - a _sound,_ like -

 

Like _machines_.

 

Well, Wilson took the opportunity and _ran_ with it.

 

Better to think of science than of kindly monsters.

 

He found the contraption only several feet away from him, a foot deep in snow and dimly glowing.

 

It was….

 

It was the Door!

 

It was Maxwell's Door!

 

Without thought, he pounded a dirty fist against it.

 

“Gerar ow a jrar!”

 

“Gerar ow! Oo hiend!”

 

He yelled, he screamed, he kicked and clawed and shouted.

 

Panting, exhausted, he finally slumped to the ground, ignoring the prickling cold.

 

He wasn't even intelligible.

 

No one would ever understand him ever again.

 

He'd tried everything, in the beginning.

 

Before the hounds, before the varg - whenever he had time, he had tried.

 

Nothing slowed it. When it didn't make him sick, when it didn't make things _worse,_ it did nothing at all.

 

He should've tried harder.

 

There was always a solution.

 

But now.

 

Now, alone, dieing slowly from the cold, too far gone to _fix_ it, and with his mind slowly (oh so slowly, oh so _quietly_ ) withering away, Wilson was determined.

 

He would _punch_ that piece of unmentionable male genitals right in the face, if it was the last thing he did.

  
He reached up and pulled the switch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for Wilson to be so... weird. I ended up projecting some of my different foul moods on him.
> 
> Also if anybody wants to know what he's saying at the end it's "get out of there! You fiend" and "get out!"


	3. Webber suffers. What are you gonna do about it, Wilson?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am a sappy, sappy goop. I tried to write angst, I tried, but it's more soft angst than anything else.
> 
> Also, I've drawn some stuff for this. Because of course I did. Would you guys like to seen it? I'll put them in a 5th chapter.
> 
> Oh, and an agender Webber! Hopefully it won't get too confusing when I refer to Wilson and Webber together...

Webber was alone.

 

They'd wandered out before, but this was the first time they've gone this far.

 

Their friends were sleeping, and Webber was hungry.

 

There was food out this way, wasn't there?

 

Well, hopefully there was.

 

They picked up the nuts they came across and plucked whatever berries they could.

 

Then a shriek broke the silence.

 

Birds were pouring upward, screaming and crowing, only a short distance from them.

 

They rushed toward it, fear gripping their heart.

 

Someone must be hurt - maybe it'd be an actual person for once?

 

Huffing, they broke into the clearing, scattering undergrowth everywhich way.

 

What was _that?_

 

It lay, unmoving, enormous and terrifying.

 

Black fur coated it, and Webber was struck by its likeness to a different creature.

 

It looked like a hound.

 

A _giant_ hound.

 

But despite its similarities, Webber found themself concerned and a bit curious.

 

They approached it as quietly as they could.

 

With trembling legs, they looked it over, only half a foot away from its immense back.

 

It was laying on its side, legs curled up against it.

 

It had a human face.

 

Ice flooded them, and they froze.

 

Its face twitched.

 

Whiskers, sprouting from the side of its head, swiveled about, and its eyelids trembled.

 

Webber tried not to breathe.

 

It inhaled deeply, seeming to be calm.

 

Then its eyes opened.

 

The white orbs immediately alarmed Webber.

 

They stumbled back and pointed their spear halfheartedly.

 

It blinked, almost like it didn't see them.

 

Then it tugged itself upward.

 

Its body held the almost human position for a few precious moments before it flopped to all fours.

 

It rose to its full height.

 

Webber gulped.

 

It _towered_ over them.

 

It sniffed the air, but Webber. Couldn't move.

 

It turned to them.

 

They almost wanted to laugh - now, awake, it looked like someone had glued a human face onto a wolf’s body.

 

It blinked again.

 

Then it grinned.

 

It shoved its face into their -

 

Into their arms?

 

What?

 

They yelped, squeaking when it practically clambered on top of them.

 

They were pressed to the floor, with a gigantic wolf holding them down.

 

At first, confused as they were they lay as still as possible, terrified with its sickening breath so close to their face.

 

But it was…. Purring?

 

It was purring? On them?

 

They reached up and, gently, pet its back.

 

Its tail thumped.

 

Well.

 

It was just a big ol’ pupper, wasn't it.

 

“Hey! Get off!”

 

It whined, but rolled off of them.

 

(Did it understand them?)

 

* * *

 

It was too dark to reach the nest in time.

 

So Webber headed off, trying to make as much time as possible before the night took over.

 

It followed them.

 

Like a stray pup, like a lost pup, happy just to see another person.

 

Webber tried to keep their hope contained, but if it really _did_ understand….

 

Maybe there were more like them?

 

If it had felt what they had….

 

If it had….

 

They wouldn't be alone anymore.

 

That night was strange.

 

It seemed happy with the campfire, but refused the berries and nuts they offered it.

 

Instead, it curled up beside them, as if to ask for comfort.

 

Webber decided to take the opportunity.

 

“Hey?”

 

It looked up. That was a good sign.

 

“You… you understand me, right?”

 

It stared at them. Was that good, or…?

 

“Um…. I….”

 

Webber sighed. This was going nowhere.

 

But as they looked away, a paw wrapped carefully around their own claw.

 

Its eyes….

 

Were bright with a sparking intelligence.

 

It nodded.

 

Webber’s eyes welled up.

 

“You - you can - I --”

 

They hugged it.

 

* * *

 

“So. I…. was a boy. The man…. he promised me it would get better. But when we got here….”

 

It looked at them with wide eyes, full of comfort.

 

“Was it…. Was it like that for you, too?”

 

Its eyes flickered, and for a moment it appeared confused (almost indecisive), but it slowly nodded.

 

“....Can you talk?”

 

It grimaced.

 

“Could you try?”

 

Its jaws pried open, painfully.

 

“Hrou.”

 

“Well, kind of. You said hullo, right?”

 

It actually glared, almost making them jump, and shook its head.

 

For a moment the two listened to the crackle of the fire.

 

“....How long have you been like this? It's only been….”

 

Webber counted their fingers.

 

“....Maybe four months? Time’s a bit weird here.”

 

It nodded, then glanced at its own paws.

 

It held up….

 

“I'm guessing a long time?”

 

It gave a strange rumble-huff, almost chuckling. It nodded.

 

“U-um…. I know it's weird but…. Are you a, um, guy?”

 

It gave them a strange look.

 

“I am - I _was -_ a boy. But now, I'm a, um, _them._ ”

 

They sighed and looked away, embarrassed.

 

But it took their hands and patted their head.

 

“Eei.”

 

He grimaced again, but Webber got it.

 

“Ok. What's your name? I'm Webber.”

 

He looked almost nervous, thoughtful.

 

Then his eyes lit up - and he drew a shape in the dirt.

 

Excited, Webber watched each slow, careful addition, sounding out the name as it formed.

 

“Wi--”

 

“Wil--”

 

“Wilso--”

 

“Wilson!”

 

The wolf-man smiled - terrifying, but Webber had the feeling it was the first in a while.

 

“It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Wilson!”

 

They shook hands - claws and paws, meeting together excitedly.

 

* * *

 

Webber decided not to return to the nest - Wilson was, after all, rather houndlike, and as far as Webber knew, hounds _hated_ spiders.

 

How was Wilson even standing him?

 

Well, whatever was causing his tolerance, Webber was grateful.

 

They traveled together, Webber collecting berries and vegetables and ignoring the meat Wilson brought back on his own excursions.

 

For the most part, they did ok - they worked well together and bonded over their mutual traumas.

 

And then things went downhill. And they went downhill _fast._

 

It began when Wilson came from a hunting trip with the carcass of a hound - no, of a hound _pup._

 

Webber didn't know what to do.

 

The wolf-man just sat there, huddled over the body, almost like he wanted to _hug_ it, but didn't want to jostle the already shattered skull bits.

 

And Webber just stood there.

 

Then, without warning, Wilson crumpled.

 

Webber darted over, catching the man's heavy body from crushing the corpse and pulling him away.

 

Wilson shook, and Webber just held him.

 

Then he tried to grab his hair, and just - just -

 

Webber nearly shrieked, but managed to pull his paws away from his face.

 

And so they held him, waiting.

 

When he did calm down, it wasn't because he was “calm” - Webber’s sense of smell had greatly increased, and all they could sense was dull emptiness.

 

While the wolf-man shivered, they tried to cover the body, with leaves, with dirt, with _anything._

 

In the morning, Webber hustled them away from the former campsite.

 

After that, the wolf-man was withdrawn and quiet.

 

He refused to tell Webber _why_ \- and he rarely hunted.

 

Webber tried to save him that time, they really did - they learned how to make traps, caught food for him, but it just wasn't enough.

 

He died in his sleep.

 

Webber cried.

 

They cried, and they ached, and they _hurt._

 

Then he lumbered out of the trees.

 

Webber ran and hugged him so hard, they felt like they would burst.

 

That conversation was one Webber hoped to never have _again._

 

_(It happened again anyway, just not in the same manner.)_

 

But, despite Wilson's assurances that everything was ok, he was ok, everything was ok -

 

It wasn't.

 

Wilson couldn't even sit up like a human, not even for a few seconds.

 

He couldn't eat with his hands - he was forced to eat with his mouth only.

 

And conversation wilted and died, just like that.

 

Webber knew that they had slightly different situations, but….

 

They never thought it was _this_ different.

 

Webber’s progression was done and over with.

 

But it appeared that Wilson's own…. _sickness_ …. was far from over.

 

This wasn't to say Wilson had lost that first spark of intelligence that Webber had spotted, but any attempt at speech or communication was abandoned.

 

Webber managed to convince the wolf-man to continue his hunts, but a growing anxiety began clutching their hearts.

 

They had a feeling this wasn't the end of it.

 

* * *

 

It was never a hound attack or a spider ambush that got them - it was the  _frogs._

 

Then it was the bees.

 

Then, suddenly, Wilson was dead again, and Webber was alone again.

 

Then they weren't, again, but it. Kept. Happening.

 

Wilson kept dieing, kept coming back, and kept _getting worse._

 

Webber began accompanying the wolf-man on his hunts, too afraid to let him out of their sight.

 

They were constantly together, but only Wilson died.

 

Only Wilson.

 

Why was it him?

 

Why couldn't Webber save him, just once?

 

Webber didn't change each time they died, so why were they letting Wilson worsen?

 

But each ambush, each attack, the wolf-man jumped to shield the half-spider.

 

Each time, when the attackers wandered off again, Webber would crawl out and sit with the body, waiting for Wilson to come back.

 

They weren't even sure if the thing coming back was Wilson anymore.

 

Sure, he was still smart, and yeah, he still protected them -

 

But it didn't _feel_ like him.

 

They were alone.

 

* * *

 

One night, held close to the wolf-man's chest like a pup, Webber pondered this.

 

They reached up, tugging lightly on the stretch of thick fur under his chin.

 

He looked down, eyes wide and blank.

 

“Wilson….”

 

Webber fidgeted.

 

“Do - Do you….”

 

They gulped and looked back up at him.

 

“Do you _understand_ me anymore?”

 

He stared.

 

Webber held back a sob.

 

They looked away.

 

Unnoticed, his ears twitched, face scrunching up.

 

A wet nose poked their face, and they turned.

 

He nodded - slowly, hesitantly, but he _nodded._

  
Webber snuffled, and hugged the big ol’ pup’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always forget what I'm going to say at the end of these.... uh.... Wilson is an unreliable narrator and I have no clue how to write children.
> 
> Oh yeah! *snaps fingers* apparently I can't write characters close to canon. Have you read how I write Wendy and Woodie? They are not obsessed with death or wood - which is not what their characters are actually like. In that same vein, Wilson isn't using science as a coping mechanism/obsessing over science.
> 
> Weird, huh?


	4. Maxwell is a sore loser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was a liar. I have no clue when this'll end. Also have a guest appearance from wigfrid - I'm so sorry, I love her.

So maybe Maxwell had played the fool.

 

Maybe he had let his little schemes blind him; maybe he had let himself get carried away.

 

Well, he had still gotten what he had first set out for.

 

He was free.

 

Or, well, as free as one could be in a place such as this.

 

Of course, he hadn't even thought that They would have let him go; no one ever left, after all.

 

Maxwell was free (in a way), with some numbskull pawn captive in his former prison, soon to be disposed of by that heartless nightmare of a shadow.

 

Charlie….

 

Maxwell had gotten lucky.

 

Charlie was….

 

Well, Maxwell certainly wasn't going to think of her fondly any longer!

 

Not after such distasteful words!

 

(If Maxwell lingered on her name, in the distant evenings just before true nightfall, well, that was his business and only his)

 

Surviving on the board was annoying, boring,and very exhausting.

 

His bones seemed to creak every two steps, and some mornings he had difficulty just rising from his mat.

 

Of course, one may wonder how he was even getting by.

 

Barely. He was getting by just barely.

 

Despite his deceitful ways, Maxwell refused to lie to himself.

 

And the truth was, he was doing horrifically.

 

The only reason he wasn't dead yet was a bit pathetic.

 

When one watches a rat run through the same maze over and over, one, without even really paying attention, will eventually know the correct path.

 

And Maxwell had been watching the rats scurry about for a very, very long time.

 

* * *

 

Tonight, he had a streak of bad luck.

 

Firstly, he couldn't rise with the sun - he must have slept strangely on his back, for he couldn't get up for a dreadful two hours.

 

Late to rise, he lost almost all of the ‘crops’ to those horrid Gobblers, and any other wild vegetation was gone as well.

 

Then, while he was out uselessly scavenging, of all things to occur, a Giant attacked his camp.

 

It had vacated the clearing by the time he got back, but his camp was in ruins.

 

Frantic, he had scrambled to put together what he had for a fire - but found only enough for two torches.

 

Without any other choice, he continued foraging with his torch in hand, too hungry and strung thin to really think clearly.

 

Which led him to this mess.

 

Trying to find the dying torch. That he had dropped.

 

(Because he didn't have glasses. And he had tripped. Wonderful. Absolutely joy inducing)

 

He muttered, he cursed, he _whined._

 

_Charlie was going to kill him._

 

Then, suddenly, a light slowly brightened on his left.

 

Someone….

 

Was approaching?

 

Who could it be? He never kept track of which pawns were where….

 

(Just another thing to regret, he supposed)

 

“Öi there! What fine thing have the Strangers bröught me tönight?”

 

Oh. It was her.

 

The weird one. Well, they were all very strange but she -

 

“What? A löne wanderer, löst withöut the light?”

 

She picked him up with one powerful tug, and he glared at her.

 

He dared her - would she recognize him?

 

“I have plenty tö spare! A feast awaits thee, dearest friend!”

 

Perhaps not.

 

* * *

 

She ushered him to the fire, yapping all the way.

 

While he could appreciate the warm fire and hot, soft meat, he found himself rubbed raw.

 

But Maxwell, being a true gentleman (and not some obnoxious phony like _some people_ ), kept his mouth shut.

 

“- Sö I höwled, pröud and pöwerful, röusing the spirits of my belöved fathers and möthers, and röde to battle!”

 

She grinned, taking a disgustingly wet chomp out of her portion.

 

“Aah, I've förgotton to ask - dear friend, what dö thöu gö by?”

 

He forced down a glare.

 

“Maxwell. I ‘go by’ Maxwell.”

 

Her expression lit up for the briefest of moments, but was wiped away quickly, replaced by that familiar, insipid blankness.

 

“It is gööd tö knöw thy name, dear friend! I suspect thöu have plans? Thöu appear the scheming sört.”

 

“Yes, yes. I thank you for your generosity, but I really just must be leaving in the morrow.”

 

He could barely stand this. Maxwell would rather suffer a small setback like death rather than stick with this lunatic.

 

She appeared a bit saddened by the news. Good for her.

 

“Well, knöw that the fine Warriör Wigfrid is always up för battle! If thöu ever require her service, I am there!”

 

She grinned, then flopped down to bed.

 

“Gööd dreams await thee, fine friend and löne wanderer.”

 

* * *

 

Maxwell awoke, and fought to his feet.

 

No way was he staying even one more second with her talk - he bet his ears had bled in the midst of her sleep talking!

 

“Wait there, fine friend.”

 

…. Hadn't she been sleeping just a moment ago?

 

She stood, with tentacle spike in hand, feet apart and shoulders set.

 

“Thöu remind me öf a scheming snake I met önce.”

 

Well, Maxwell's luck was officially the _worst_.

 

“I do not know what you mean. I will be on my way now --”

 

“Nö, thöu will nöt.”

 

The tentacle spike was a bit too close for comfort.

 

He looked up.

 

She glared back, her eyes hard.

 

Maxwell was a smart man. Let it be known that he was also a cowardly one.

 

* * *

 

After running for what seemed an eternity, Maxwell collapsed against a tree.

 

He was still starving, and had only one torch left. He didn't even have an ax.

 

His sides ached.

 

This was pointless.

 

He supposed another wasted life was inevitable. He'd just die, awaken, and carry on his way.

 

It was better than that torture - wasn't it?

 

Somehow, it didn't feel any different.

 

They still toyed with him and he was still imprisoned in Their playpen.

 

The only difference was that now he could move his legs and he was subject to the whims of other pawns.

 

Wonderful.

 

Honestly, had it really been worth it?

 

It had been entertaining, sure, watching the little blind things frantically running about, and it had eaten away at infinity.

 

Charlie had even regained some of her former vitality.

 

But Maxwell had set out with a plan - and it had succeeded.

 

He watched the sun descend, and lit the torch with nary a flicker of doubt.

 

When it went out, he would let Charlie have her way.

 

Then Maxwell would start over.

 

But even as he settled, he caught a sound - distant at first, but slowly approaching.

 

Barking.

 

Oh - his hounds! His beloved biters!

 

They were coming to kill him.

 

Well, better that than Charlie.

 

At least then his flesh wouldn't go to waste, eh?

 

He stood, bones creaking, and began the slow trek to death.

 

* * *

 

The sound was closer now, and Maxwell's torch was barely alive.

 

As close as he was, he could tell it was a single hound, separated from the louder sounds just a bit farther away - perhaps a loner? Or maybe a lost pup. It was quite a bit quieter than most full grown ones, after all.

 

Whatever it was, it was no doubt hungry.

 

But as Maxwell got closer and closer, he smelled something…. _fishy._

 

No, not one of _those,_ but just…. something suspicious.

 

For one, he could hear something _speaking._

 

And there was a fire.

 

Perhaps Charlie had dragged a newcomer in?

 

Then it would be hitting two birds with one stone!

 

Give him a better arrangement _and_ give him a good show in his final moments!

 

Perfect!

 

He hustled forward, ignoring his crying muscles.

 

So, with a grin upon his face, Maxwell made a very, very, _very_ grave error.

 

* * *

 

Webber sat, warm and full, wrapped up close to Wilson's barrel chest.

 

They chattered, filling the silence with pleasant sound.

 

They could hear the nearby shouts of a hound pack, but they'd already met the creatures - and were assured of their safety.

 

Nothing made hounds scared, except maybe Wilson.

 

Webber had gotten used to his quiet huffing, and had found a soft fondness for his furry face.

 

Sure, they missed those early days - but Wilson had been so _fearful._

 

That wasn't to say he wasn't like that anymore, but it seemed that he focused on simpler things. Like staring at mushrooms all day, or digging a hole into the base of a tree.

 

Wilson was weird.

 

Webber was ok, though - it was scary, when he died and came back bigger and hairier (Webber hadn't even thought such a thing was possible), but each time Webber asked and was comforted.

 

Wilson was still there - maybe he was a little different, but he was still _there._

 

Webber was pulled out of their thoughts by a sudden quake - Wilson was alerting to something.

 

Then, a rustle.

 

A man - tall and skinny - tumbled into the fire light, dropping the remains of a hastily made torch.

 

Everything happened very quickly after that.

 

Webber was thrown - a blur of black blotted out their sight -

 

Rumbling filled the air, making Webber’s claws _tremble,_ their hearts _stutter._

 

The man was swallowed by the sheer bulk of the beast, and a pitiful squeaking could be heard just beneath the horrible, horrible sound.

 

Their head was ringing, their eyes watering.

 

Then the rumble rose, became a full roar -

 

And the man was crying, was _squealing -_

 

Webber stumbled to their feet, fell once, got back up, and ran.

 

They were terrified.

 

This wasn't Wilson.

 

Whatever this was, it wasn't Wilson.

 

They screamed, then, lurching, they thrust out the spear they had grabbed without noticing.

 

They were screaming, the beast was howling, the man was yelling.

 

They dropped the spear, shaking.

 

They shoved, screaming, and pushed.

 

The beast unbalanced, toppling to the side.

 

Panting, they hoisted the man into their arms awkwardly, dragging him closer to the fire.

 

The beast had staggered to its feet, a full bodied hiss emitting from a jawful of fangs.

 

“Stop it! Go away, GO AWAY!”

 

It flinched, eyes widening, but recovered. Its face twisted, a snarl removing any likeness to Wilson.

 

They blubbered, eyes filling up, arms struggling to restrain the stranger.

 

“Wilson doesn't do that! He would never do that! You're scaring me!”

 

The man ripped himself from their arms.

 

“What in the bloody _fuck_ is going _on?”_

 

The beast stopped growling, but its hackles were raised high. A strangling sound was just barely muffled.

 

Webber glared, then turned to the man.

 

“We think I should ask _you_ that, actually. Wilson doesn't do that.”

 

The man twitched.

 

“ _Wilson?_ The _nincompoop?_ The _scientist?_ I think you've got the wrong _species_ here, pal.”

 

Wilson spat disdainfully.

 

Webber looked at the man.

 

The man glared back.

 

“I think we know who Wilson is.”

 

The man sputtered.

 

“Well, obviously you've got something jumbled up in there, since you're making _no_ sense.”

 

“We think you know _exactly_ what is going on.”

 

He snorted.

 

“I have no clue what you're on about, but I can honestly say that you are some _awful_ hosts! Attacking your guests as soon as they arrive!”

 

Wilson hissed, but seemed to have calmed somewhat.

 

Webber motioned the near-giant over, tired of fighting.

 

The man scrambled away, but stuck to the fireside like glue.

 

“I'll be on my way on the morrow, so no more funny business, eh, pal?”

 

Wilson snarled, made to rise -

 

But Webber pressed a claw to his flank, forcing him down.

 

This was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

Maxwell tossed and turned, trying to avoid eye contact with that _monster._

 

He got the inkling that he was _forgetting_ something, but he also got the feeling that everything would be better if he just ignored it.

 

He got nary a wink that night, too disturbed by that _monster’s_ marbled gaze.

 

The little spiderling wasn't too haunting - Webber had been one of his oldest experiments -

 

Oh. Ah.

 

Well then.

 

See, Maxwell got _bored._ Even with the ever joy inducing activity of watching pawns be ripped apart, he bored easily.

 

When the little nutty scientist entered the game, Maxwell became - well - _inspired._

 

As unimaginative as he was, he hadn't exactly built a world too different from Earth. Sure, it had its differences, but it had grass, and trees, and animals - prey, predators, and insects.

 

Not too different.

 

But the arrival of a mind such as a scientist - well, They always showed him what the pawns could do in his place, and Wilson was no different.

 

And hey - what _would_ happen if someone was crossed with a spider?

 

What _would_ happen if one was infused with little bits of nightmare fuel?

 

Well, the Ancient Guardian had already answered _that_ question, but they weren't _human._

 

So Maxwell had….

 

Well, he had set up an experiment, set it on automatic, and sat back to watch.

 

It had been _very_ entertaining - Wilson tried so hard to ignore it, then had completely lost it.

 

And then They had dragged his attention elsewhere.

 

Afterall, one little pawn didn't matter much - there were much more important things to attend to.

 

Maxwell thought, somewhat bitterly, that that ‘one little pawn’ was now very important, since that ‘little pawn’ had nearly torn his face off.

 

* * *

 

The morning did not improve things.

 

Maxwell ached, and was trapped under a little spiderling’s (they were supposed to have lost their mind years ago) and a massive varg-creature (he was supposed to have _died, permanently,_ years ago) collective glare.

 

Seemed little Webber had gotten clued in - either from memory or from some ridiculous barbaric communication ritual that the beast had devised.

 

“You're the man - the one who _promised.”_

 

“If you can dig around in that empty little skull of yours for just a _little_ bit longer, you'll notice that I never promised you anything that you didn't get.”

 

A guttural sound from the hulking monster. Maxwell ignored it.

 

The kid's deformed face scrunched up.

 

“We're pretty sure you never promised to change me into a spider or make Wilson sick.”

 

“What can I say? I got bored, _pal._ ”

 

A snort of disgust. Maxwell continued.

 

“And just like I said, I will be taking my leave now. So long, pal.” He turned to go.

 

A heavy, black furred limb shoved him back.

 

“No, nu-uh.”

 

A little grinning _gremlin_ shoved its nasty little face into his.

  
_“You're not going anywhere. Not for a long, long time.”_


	5. Everyone has a horrible day except Wx78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea what to write for this chapter, and only knew that Wx78 was gonna be in it.
> 
> What I forgot is that I can't seem to write Wx78 as a regular asshole. Instead, under my typing fingers, he becomes a horrifying sadist. I am so sorry.
> 
> IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THE TAGS, PLEASE DO SO NOW.
> 
> Vague-yet-explicit torture, mentions of underage sex, and death.

Undergrowth cracked under his footsteps. He resisted the urge to grind his foot down.

 

Everything was irritating. Everything  _ hurt. _

 

He hadn't expected the pain - he'd expected freedom. Oh well.

 

The witch had been very self assured, and Wx78 had been tired of just sitting.

 

It was much more pleasurable hunting organics.

 

Which is what he was doing now.

 

He continued to follow the tracks - three sets in total, two bipeds and one quadruped.

 

The two bipeds were of little concern - both were lightweight, with one taller than the other. It was the quadruped that endangered him.

 

It was definitely a heavy one, and large too.

 

Wx78 would manage it just fine, but he might have to kill the two bipeds and flee before doing so. Then he'd return with the proper equipment.

 

But that was only one plan - punishment would change, depending on what he observed as he tracked them.

 

Easy and clean. At least for now.

 

* * *

Maxwell had not planned for this.

 

Firstly, he had not planned to stumble into an occupied clearing, be nearly mauled to death by some horrific beast, find out that said beast was the remnant of an old plaything, and then be captured and held captive by said old plaything and his little spider friend.

 

Of course, Wilson couldn't speak; Maxwell was thankful for that. But the spider-kid  _ could. _

 

“Wilson’s having another growth spurt. Should we go out hunting? With more people, you won't get sick again, we don't think.”

 

And the spider-kid? They were a shadow-damned  _ chatterbox. _

 

“I wonder how big you'll get? M-maybe I shouldn't be talking about this….”

 

The beast snorted, and reached over Maxwell's head to reassure the brat.

 

Maxwell tried not to breath.

 

Who knows when the last time the thing had taken a bath?

 

Of course, the little gremlin giggled at having a nasty, mud encrusted, “ _ aromatic”  _ face pressed against their hairy pip-squeak face.

 

Wonderful.

 

He wondered when the two would get sick - surely such unhygienic lifestyles would kill them?

 

Then he could just  _ leave. _

 

But alas, the two did not drop dead from some parasitic worm eating through their brains.

 

Instead, they continued tramping right along, wandering on to nowhere.

 

When they finally did stop (well before sunset, he might add), Maxwell's knees were trembling and he was sure  _ something  _ was following them.

 

He wasn't sure what it was, wasn't even sure if it had gone unnoticed by the others, but it was a chance - small, and slim, but still a chance. It would kill them - and, well….

 

He had to get away from these morons.

 

* * *

Wx78 had finally reached their resting burrow.

 

Definitely not a permanent residence, but one where they would be relaxed.

 

Relaxed and unawares.

 

He'd seen the quadruped, and had evaluated the relations.

 

Evaluation was vital; if one targeted the disliked pariah, then one could easily weaken the group without inciting too much unmanageable rage.

 

The tall thin organic was at a severe disadvantage - it had not spoken once during the trek, and had been glared at almost the entire time.

 

Not only that, but it was physically weak as well - wheezing and sweaty, limbs shaking with exertion.

 

An easy kill, and perhaps it would be a little satisfying as well. Wx78 was not above grudges.

 

The other two were a bit more difficult.

 

The biped, while it was an organic, was deformed and mutated, clearly some spider abomination ousted from its nest.

 

Small enough, but he must not underestimate it. No doubt it'd be a quick little bugger.

 

The quadruped was also very clearly protective of the creature, and had multiple injuries from bees and frogs scarring its hide.

 

It was an immense being, perhaps only several times bigger than a timber wolf.

 

Intimidating, but Wx78 was up for the challenge; besides, he'd already taken down monsters four times its size.

 

But he’d come back for those two later.

 

He lay in waiting, keeping his body still and automatically oiling his joints.

 

No squeaking, creaking joints would ruin this - it was his first good hunt since the Throne, and he wanted to get back into practice.

 

When they finally fell asleep, he crept into the camp.

 

He dragged the organic away, tying a rag over its eyes and gagging it when he felt it stir.

 

The walk was long, several miles of looping in and out of narrow canyons and climbing up or around barren plateaus, with only his helmet light to guide him.

 

When he finally reached the cave he resided in, the organic was wide awake and silent.

 

Normally they moaned at this point, but not this one. Perhaps it was sick?

 

Sickness would keep it silent, keep it passive.

 

Not really what he wanted, but oh well.

 

He tied it up, tight and contained, against a rickety old chair he never used except for occasions like this.

 

Then he removed the gag. He would remove the blindfold later, when its chances of escape were nil.

 

It panted, then dropped its head.

 

“So, who are you? I could guess any number of beings who want me dead, but getting it right is such a chore.”

 

Wx78 did not answer. He did not answer to such scum.

 

“Not gonna answer, eh? Well now, that's narrowed it down a bit.”

 

It paused, but Wx78 was bored. He stabbed it.

 

It shrieked, thrashed its legs uselessly, and screamed out a wave of profanities.

 

“W-what?? What the ever bloody fuck! Did you just stab my fuckin leg? Shadows-be-damned!”

 

It continued with a slurry of unintelligible curses.

 

Wx78 waited.

 

It huffed a bit, then swallowed.

 

Before it could speak again, he took his razor and began to shave its skull.

 

It froze, like a tired old television screen, still and adam’s apple bobbing.

 

“I --”

 

He pressed the razor down, ever so slightly, forcing blood up with his chrome fingers.

 

It swallowed.

 

False start - if it was going to waste its time guessing his identity, it would not use filler words. Whether it knew what he wanted did not matter.

 

It did not speak for the rest of the procedure, only flinching slightly when he began humming along to a song that it no doubt recognized.

 

When he finished, he snapped his fingers, activating the ramshackle gramophone he'd pieces pieced together from old shells.

 

A soft tune began playing, growing louder before steadying as it filled the dry cavern.

 

It moaned, soft and low just like the song, growing louder until it meshed together and created the most beautiful sound - a sound he'd missed, trapped against that stiff and colourless chair.

 

At least he'd found his favourite song there.

 

* * *

Black, warm and comforting, held beneath his eyelids.

 

Wilson dislike waking - waking to that early morning chill, full of expectation and an alertness, no, an awareness best kept at bay….

 

It always felt too intimate, too close.

 

He liked sleeping, instead.

 

But he could hear something - two somethings.

 

One was far away and distant, but so familiar he heard it dully.

 

The other was near him - ahh, it was Webber.

 

“Where did he go??”

 

Oh. Webber was panicking.

 

Probably because Maxwell was gone.

 

Wilson opened his eyes.

 

As usual, a shiver ran through his immense form, shaking a cloud of dust to the floor.

 

Webber immediately trotted over to him, concern marring their normally jovial features.

 

“Wilson, he's gone! Just gone! What do we do?”

 

Wilson turned in the direction of Maxwell's sounds, carefully pondering his choices.

 

Whatever had him was having quite the time of it.

 

Did Wilson care if Maxwell, his tormentor and the cause of all his pain and sickness, was killed?

 

Did he care if the man was revived, without supervision, left to wreck whatever havoc he wished?

 

It was yet another conundrum in the long string of conundrums that was Wilson's life.

 

Without thinking too hard, he decided to defer to Webber.

 

(Because it honestly didn't matter. Wilson was always fighting through a cloud of apathy now-a-days; all that was left was Webber and Science. Webber was always safe with him, and Science could always be done with eyes and scent and ears)

 

Webber fidgeted under his gaze, but seemed to understand Wilson's opinion.

 

“We see what you mean, but you know where he is, don't you? We can't just leave him!”

 

They furrowed their brows, upper legs clicking nervously.

 

“It - it's wrong, isn't it? To do that?”

 

Webber stared up at him, their discomfort clear.

 

Wilson debated, but just shrugged.

 

Not reassured at all, Webber turned away and sagged.

 

They fiddled with their claws, face hidden.

 

“I think we….”

 

Wilson turned toward their destination.

 

“I think we should help him.”

 

* * *

As they walked, the sounds became louder and louder.

 

Wilson was sure he'd heard the song before; upbeat and looping, around and around and around -

 

Webber nudged him, dragging his attention to the opening in the front of the cliff face.

 

Warm smelling (almost like hot iron), bright, harsh light oozing out like pus from an infected wound.

 

They'd awoken at dawn, and the sun was already setting.

 

(Wilson wondered who the survivor was. He wondered when they had snuck away with the unlucky Maxwell)

 

Now here, it was clear that the being - whoever they were - was perhaps having a little bit….  _ too  _ much fun.

 

Music blared, loud and thrumming like an open heart - disturbing, like a hand scraping against a chalkboard.

 

Groans and moans rebounded against the little ditty, creating a cacophony of false sound.

 

And Wilson was nervous. This was making him nervous.

 

Webber shuffled behind him, and he was reminded why he was doing this.

 

Webber was a child - a child with a soft face, kind and, while not exactly forgiving, they were not one for violence, especially not violence brought on by revenge.

 

They wanted to keep an eye on Maxwell, and skirted away from torture.

 

Alright. But Webber would be staying outside.

 

When he motioned the child to stay back, they nodded.

 

“I’ll stay close by - maybe we could find a hollow tree? Or perhaps stay with that spider nest….”

 

He nodded, then pushed the rambling child away, shooing them off.

 

“Ok, ok! I’ll go!”

 

They turned, but paused before they could fully escape the fingers of the lava pooling from the open maw.

 

“You be ok, ok? Don’t be stupid, Wilson.”

 

Then they were gone.

 

He breathed in deeply, forcing his slimy, cold tongue back into his mouth.

 

His teeth ached.

 

It rankled him, it  _ unsettled  _ him, this unease.

 

Something up there was going to ruin a lot for him, he just knew it.

 

(Maybe it would get through this damned apathy. This damned  _ laziness. _ Maxwell had done that once - shocked him into overwhelming, barely contained rage. Perhaps the scumbag would do it again)

 

So he began his approach, slow and quiet, creeping and steady.

 

He expected the gore that met him, but he did not appreciate it.

 

* * *

He was just getting started on the third fingernail when he heard it.

 

It jarred him, broke him out of his euphoria so quickly he thought the little bug had died on him.

 

He twisted, glanced around the cave entrance.

 

Nothing.

 

Wx78 turned back around, focusing again on his prey.

 

The organic had only squealed once, and only in surprise.

 

It seemed the former king had quite the pain tolerance - it was either that or it simply froze in pain and moaned when it became too much. Some organics were like that.

 

He recalled one such creature - a little wimp of a thing, just a little runt of a thing - squeaking in pain but sobbing whenever he spoke. It had never screamed.

 

He’d shaved this one’s head, remembering that, for some ridiculous - no doubt demented - reason, almost all organics held their hair in high esteem. Even the dull-minded ones!

 

He carefully brushed at the hairs still clinging to the organic’s face, his brass skull whirring distantly.

 

He caught some of the little wisps in his finger joints. He pulled them away slowly.

 

It moaned.

 

Was that all it ever did? Moan and groan?

 

How boring!

 

The Great Maxwell could only moan and groan, like some insipid preteen  _ girl _ -

 

He smashed his curling fist down against the scum’s skull.

 

It roared in pain, jerking its head away, but he was already grabbing it.

 

He squeezed it,  _ squeezed  _ the little tendons pulled tight in its shuddering neck.

 

He was tired of this. Tired and bored.

 

Wx78 brought the shitstain’s face close to his, reaching up with his other hand to remove the soiled blindfold.

 

Then he was flying.

 

Wx78’s processes stuttered, stunned and shaken - physically shattered, motherboard rattling ominously.

 

He looked.

 

The quadruped.

 

This close, he was in awe - bigger than a varg, with muscles hidden beneath layers and layers of thick, mangy fur.

 

It was beautiful.

 

It was the most stunning specimen he’d ever seen - better than that old cyclop’s eye he had, better than that penguin skin he kept hidden away.

 

He  _ wanted  _ it.

 

Then his head was crushed, spattering the walls with viscous black nightmare fuel.


	6. Maxwell is a chatterbug and more emotionally aware than one might think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Webber is a nice boss, Wilson is very not human, and Maxwell's a great deal more aware than anyone might've thought.

He trailed behind the beast, still blind, with his hands bound.

 

The trek was rough. Maxwell could barely think straight, much less walk straight.

 

Webber, the little brat, wasn't there. Probably off playing with some of their kinder friends.

 

The beast’s breath was hot and overwhelming against the side of his face.

 

Oh. He'd fallen to the side; Wilson was holding him up, was practically dragging him.

 

Had his tendons been cut? Maxwell didn't know anything about medicine or the human body, only really knew how to disinfect and wrap a wound.

 

He remembered hearing that being cut in certain places could damage certain functions - like his tendons, for example.

 

There was a grunt beside his left ear, and a brief, shocking, unpleasant, _slimy_ thing trailed his jawline before he was dropped.

 

A gasp, then his blindfold was finally removed.

 

The kid’s face was scrunched up, confused and unreadable.

 

Maxwell attempted to speak, but only coughed hoarsely.

 

Wilson, the big brute, gently pushed the brat away, blocking their sight - a mite too late, he should think - and shoved his face into Maxwell's.

 

Whatever he saw, he disliked. He huffed, and Maxwell heard a scurrying sound behind him.

 

What were his injuries? He knew he was shaved, had a slice down his scalp to his nose, and he'd been stabbed, on his legs and possible his torso, and something was wrong with his fingernails.

 

He wondered if antiseptic would’ve helped. Oh well. At least infection led to delirium.

 

There was a clammy, clawed hand against his forehead. He did not flinch.

 

The hand carefully wrapped his head and hands, but stuttered at his other injuries.

 

He must’ve been cut on his torso. Not stabbed; stabbing would’ve led to death, would've led to a quick blackout due to blood loss.

 

Another huff, but Maxwell had closed his eyes without notice. What could he say? He was tired.

 

The two conversed in hushed whispers, but Maxwell was falling asleep.

 

If they screwed up on his care (which wouldn't be surprising - just observe how often they bathed), at least he'd go in delirium.

 

* * *

 

The next day was a little better.

 

Maxwell's head had cleared up with rest, and he'd checked his bandages for mishandling.

 

Despite his grievances with the two jokes across from him, he had to admit that they had gotten the job done.

 

As the fire crackled and sparked, Webber stared at him with an unnerving focus.

 

Wilson was pointedly not looking at him.

 

Breakfast consisted of mangled rabbit flesh and fresh berries. Wilson was not a clean hunter by any means.

 

Normally Maxwell would complain, but the silence was so tense that to do so would probably be shooting himself in the foot. Not life ending, but quite unnecessary.

 

“Who was it, Mr. Maxwell?”

 

Ever the respectful one. Maxwell wasn't sure whether he or Wilson hated the habit more.

 

He cleared his throat, nervous about the state of his voice.

 

“I'm afraid that a blindfold can do wonders for concealing the identity of any person. Why, I believed that that brute over there was a tree guard with all his racket! Here's some advice, kid: don't play hero.”

 

Oops. His mouth seemed to be running a little. Oh well.

 

Webber seemed mollified - maybe a touch horrified as well.

 

Wilson rumbled. Maxwell resisted grimacing, but only barely.

 

Webber tapped the ground, and Maxwell sighed.

 

The only way that Webber (Maxwell hadn't even tried) had figured Wilson could actually communicate with them was by writing in the dirt. Tapping the ground seemed to be their way of reminding Wilson to do so.

 

What a waste of time.

 

The two were quickly absorbed in the task, Webber carefully reminding Wilson where he was and encouraging the beast whenever he grumbled.

 

Maxwell summoned the Codex Umbra.

 

Not something he did often, but it was a good time waster when stupid things like this happened.

 

The unspoken agreement was that they would ignore his little book if he didn't attempt any overtly obvious escape plans.

 

“I think Wilson was trying to say --”

 

“ **W’f d-d’lk.** ”

 

A hefty paw swiped at the book, but Maxwell managed to dismiss it in surprise.

 

A growling maw of teeth, fangs, no, enormous canines, so close to his face, too close, _too close--_

 

A barked “hey!” and the maw of teeth and hunger and darkness departed.

 

Maxwell slumped, hand clutching at his bandaged chest, heart thundering so loud that he was sure that he'd have a heart attack, right then and there.

 

Webber scolded the dog, sure enough, but Maxwell's mind was all over the place. He felt like he was floating, was being lifted into the air by trembling toddler fingers.

 

“Mr. Maxwell? Mr. Maxwell, Wilson didn't mean it….”

 

“Shove off, kid. What did that great, useless lump over there say ‘bout that other fuc--”

 

The beast growled. Maxwell shut up.

 

Webber, oblivious (but maybe not. You never knew with the brat), cheerfully went on with Wilson's comment.

 

“He said that it was a robot - a robot, can you imagine? - and that it leaked ‘nightmare fuel’ everywhere. He also implied - right, Wilson? - that you'd know what that was.”

 

Maxwell nodded. So it was _that_ one - probably should've known, since he had been playing _that_ song. Only someone who had experienced it would've played it.

 

He wasn't surprised that that one had liked it enough to hum and listen to it with its own free will.

 

“So it's done, isn't it? No more questions.”

 

Maxwell rose to his feet and began gathering his scattered belongings.

 

“Where are we heading, kid?”

 

* * *

 

It was done, but while Webber and even his own mind seemed to respect that, Wilson seemed unnerved.

 

Or, well, that was what Maxwell thought he was. It was a bit difficult to tell, with all that fur.

 

The beast seemed to be playing mother hen; following him around, leaning over him whenever he sat down, and even attempting to read over his shoulder or snatch the Codex Umbra away when he caught him with it.

 

Before, Maxwell had been captive with some semblance of privacy, but now it was like he was being held in some kind of prison - no, a shadows-be-damned institution!

 

It was infuriating.

 

Webber seemed to almost pity him, the snobby brat.

 

At least Wilson was conflicted whenever Webber stayed at camp and Maxwell wanted to take a quick trip to the nearby river to gather water. Most of the time his actual fondness for the kid overrode whatever irrational guilt inspired protectiveness for him. That was the only time Maxwell had alone.

 

This went on for a week. A _week._

 

Maxwell tried to keep his temper, he really did. (So he _had_ yelled quite a bit that week, even began losing his voice toward the end of it)

 

But it didn't stop, not until the hulking brute followed him to the river on one of the few occasions his bizarre, nonsensical, bestial brain decided that Webber would be fine on their own.

 

There, Maxwell burst, in the loudest, latest, and last in the horrible screaming matches he had initiated over the past week. (But it was planned, somewhat)

 

He threw the water pouch-things (why the fuck would he know what the shadows-damned things were actually called?!) and let out a long, drawn out groan.

 

“Why are you doing this, pal?”

 

He began calmly. He was a gentleman, after all. All of these fights began with a quiet prod.

 

Of course, Wilson just mumbled as always, like the dumb beast he was. Maxwell didn't know why he was even trying anymore.

 

“You follow me _everywhere_ , you _force_ me to stay in camp, you _refuse_ to let me know what your damn problem is with my book, and you watch me _piss_ because of some baseless paranoia that your dog brain can't handle!”

 

“I've just about lost my cool, _pal._ Unlike _some_ people, I'm not some machine that can instantly adjust to being constantly watched by some dumb brute. If anybody's going to watch the Great Maxwell, it's going to be someone powerful, someone smart. Not _you_ **,** not anytime soon. Sorry to disappoint, pal.”

 

Wilson had been growling throughout his diatribe, as was his wont.

 

What wasn't, however, was a sudden loud ringing in Maxwell's ears.

 

He kept his ground, glaring up defiantly at the enormous mutt.

 

The two measured each other, each trying to intimidate the other.

 

Wilson growled, loud now instead of mumbling, and Maxwell refused to let his grin show. Finally.

 

The damn mutt mumbled all the time - Maxwell wasn't sure the spell would work.

 

But it had.

 

**“It is not Right.”**

 

“Buddy, if you've got a problem, spit it out. Or do you need the little spider brat to hold your hand?”

 

**“Webber is good kid. Do not dare tell me who is brat and who is not.”**

 

“Ah, look who's up on the pedestal - just fucking tell me what the big deal is, _pal.”_

 

**“Do not. Do not call me that.”**

 

“Then get to the point, pal!”

 

**“It is all Wrong. I did Wrong, and Webber should Not have seen.”**

 

“Mr. Higgsbury, you are on a path leading to nowhere, so I suggest you get to the point, for the shadows-damned hundredth time!”

 

**“You deserve what you get, you miserable excuse of a Flea.”**

 

“So now you're backtracking? Just tell me, pal, I'm about ready to lose my patience - and _actually_ do so, not just storm off. I'm done with your bullshit.”

 

**“I am Human. Humans do not leave others to be tortured. You deserved it. Webber should Not have seen.”**

 

Ah. There it was.

 

“But you are not human, Mr. Higgsbury. In fact, the spider kid is closer to humanity than you are.”

 

**“I am Human.”**

 

“No, I'm afraid not.”

 

**“I Am.”**

 

Maxwell sighed.

 

“No. You are not, Mr. Higgsbury. Take a good look at yourself and what you're saying.”

 

Wilson seemed to flinch, seemed to finally come back down to earth. His head trembled, and his long tongue tried to shove itself back into his mouth.

 

**“....How are we speaking.”**

 

“Magic. What else would it be, Wilson?”

 

**“Magic does not exist. Only Science. Do not try to trick me, Flea.”**

 

“So stubborn. I’d expect you to have a little more faith, Mr. Higgsbury.”

 

**“There is no Faith in you.”**

 

“Acceptable. But not what this whole…. dialogue is about. Face it; you are feeling guilty for your own inhumanity and apathy, and also feel annoyed that Webber, a child, saw what had been done to me and what you almost allowed to kill me. Who is more human, Wilson? The monster in the human skin who forced you into that hideous form or the beast who allowed a child to face and treat the wounds a torturer inflicted?”

 

Wilson flinched, dead eyes unblinking. His long, sinuous neck bobbed, ears dipped, whiskers quivered.

 

“So now, out of some _pathetic_ attempt at redemption, out of some selfish guilt you feel and cannot shake from your diseased mind, you harass _me?_ You imprison _me?_ I was already following your rules like a good little pawn, but now you wish to dictate my every move. Unacceptable.”

 

**“You--”**

 

“Whatever you may say will not fix this, Wilson. Whatever guilt you are fostering is pointless; what has already happened is done. There is no use crying over spilt milk.”

 

Wilson looked to the ground, expression unreadable.

 

Maxwell was done speaking. He picked up the water-pouch and began filling it.

 

**“Does Webber know?”**

 

Such a worrywart.

 

“How about you ask them yourself? They're a smart brat. I doubt they don't know; they're just kind enough to excuse it.”

 

Wilson quieted.

 

The two returned back to camp, silent and peaceful. Maxwell cancelled the spell; too much effort to hold a overall useless ability. Maxwell wasn't interested in whatever the two morons chatted about in their free time.

 

* * *

  
Maxwell was allowed to leave the camp alone the next morning to empty his bladder, without anyone peering over his shoulder, a privilege he hadn't been allowed to exercise in the past week.

 

Seems his efforts had been successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in one day??? Holy shit?? Normally it takes up to three days to a whole week to write a new chapter. Dang, I'm proud.
> 
> It's been a while since I wrote for this, and in the time I took away I experimented with two very intensive styles. I think you can see how my writings changed.
> 
> My main concern here is if Maxwell is ok; this is the first fic I ever wrote him in, and I don't even know if he lines up with the previous chapters that he is in.


End file.
